


In which Erik and Charles are both literature professors

by koufukuron730



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Charles is a geeky literature professor, Erik is a poet, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:15:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koufukuron730/pseuds/koufukuron730
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drs. Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier are literature professors, and everyone--especially Charles' younger sister Raven--knows that they are meant to be. Enter general angst, hesitation, miscommunication, and a couple of characters that will make it hard for them to end up together. Can you really expect a happy ending?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I am from Asia, I have no intimate knowledge of Western universities. Everything is based on what I personally know as a grad student and a college instructor. Wrote this for a prompt from 1stclass-kink @ LJ.

Erik was putting the final touches to his presentation for the afternoon with one of his graduate students, a girl named Raven.  Good student, Raven is, and she is currently working on her thesis while assisting him in his own research.  She is the closest thing that Erik can call as his “favorite student,” and he has recommended that she be employed by the university’s literature department as an instructor next term. 

“Will you blow this part up,” Erik said, pointing to the image of three Southeast Asian ladies going to an exclusive circus show in the 1910’s on the bottom of the yellowing newspaper page he has scanned in.  “And will you clean it up while you’re at it?”

“Of course,” Raven said.  He knew she majored in art for her undergraduate degree, with literature as her minor, but has elected to focus her graduate studies in literature. She has been very helpful with his archival research presentations—cleaning up images and making his Powerpoint presentations a whole lot more interesting to the audience.  Erik is sincerely interested in the direction Raven is taking with her research—which is mapping the narrative archetypes and structures of modern comic books—and she is a very pleasant girl, not to mention being very patient with his numerous assignments and, sometimes, his shifting moods.  Pleasant and smart, with a critical mind and an intellectual curiosity about a lot of things.  He wished many of his students can be like her, and not vapid little beings who are seriously wasting their parents’ money partying and drinking themselves to an early death.

“What will I do without you?”  Erik knew he can quote medieval European literature verbatim and provide the most eloquent reading of trashy contemporary romance, but he is practically useless in these Photoshop-Powerpoint-computer things.  Not to mention that since Raven has been helping him with his presentations, none of the audience (most of them bullied into attending Dr. Lehnsherr’s stuffy presentations by the other lit professors) has professed to slit their own throat in boredom (which a couple of students already did, Erik heard them outside the auditorium).

“Be horribly boring,” Raven answered. “But all these archival thingies are quite amazing. No, wipe that look off your face, Doctor. I won’t sift through your collection of moldy periodicals for you.”

“And I thought you are well on your way to scholarly greatness.  I’ll buy you dinner later, unless you’re otherwise engaged?”

“Actually, my brother’s flying in from England tonight. I have to pick him up at the airport, or he’ll get himself hacked to pieces by a serial killer cabbie.” 

“I didn’t know you have a brother,” Erik said lightly as he ran through the essay he wrote for the afternoon’s presentation.

“The subject’s never come up until now, don’t beat yourself up for forgetting things about me,” Raven laughed.  Erik has an elephant’s memory about a lot of things, but details about other people’s lives are his weakest point.  He hated forgetting about things, though—especially about people he would like to believe are his friends.  “You should meet my brother.  You’ll like him.  He likes his musty dusty books, too.  He’s went through the ancient libraries of Europe for the last few years, you’ll have plenty of things to talk about.”

Erik laughed.  “We’ll see.”

“So how about we pick up my brother tonight and have dinner together?” 

“You kids will have a lot of catching up to do, I don’t want to get in the way.”

“But I do love the restaurants you take me to,” Raven grinned. 

“We can reschedule.  Can you make the pages less yellow? And remove some of these brown spots here, those tropical libraries ought to keep these things in temperature-controlled rooms.”

“Yep, I think you and my brother will get along splendidly.”

Erik doubted that.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles liked Europe and the smell of cold, old stone that housed its ancient libraries.  Raven thought it was weird of him to have grown up in a mansion of cold, old stone and still love the sight, smell, and feeling of it.  But as much as he liked Europe and the smell of old stone, he has been offered a teaching post in a good university back home in New York.  His sister is completing her master’s degree in the same university, and he will be able to do something he enjoys without living so far away from Raven. 

He was teaching part-time in England—critical theory, which Raven thought was the most boring subject he could teach—and he had been feeling rather antsy about being appointed as an associate professor in the university he was teaching in.  The department chairman, an American named Dr. Sebastian Shaw, was not very fond of him and had been vetoing any nomination done in his favor.  Charles was resigned to just being an instructor even if he has finished his dissertation—after all, he was much younger than Dr. Shaw, and that man would not be department chairman forever.

But in the fall of last year, he played host to Dr. Emma Frost, one of Raven’s literature professors in her university.  Dr. Frost was a visiting professor in Charles’ London university—but back in New York she was the head of her university’s literature department—and she invited him to become a full-time professor there.  He accepted and informed her that he will fly over once the courses he was teaching were finished.

And then there is the matter of a nasty break-up.  One of the reasons why Charles insisted on staying in England is because he had a boyfriend—this ruggedly handsome sod of a mechanical engineering professor who he met during one of the university’s attempt to get people from the different colleges and departments “acquainted”—and when that relationship fell apart, Charles was eager to leave both the university and the city he has called home for the last few years.  To Charles’ credit, that bastard (no matter how handsome he was) should not have insisted on being more intelligent than Charles is because he can solve difficult equations, which does not matter in real life anyway. 

So now, New York.  The flight had been tiring, but Charles was looking forward to seeing Raven.  He had not seen his sister after the Christmas they spent in Paris with James (the bloody sod who thought it was alright to insult Charles’ intelligence and bring up the issue of his cardigans).  It was a disastrous holiday—Raven hated James, and James was not used to Charles paying attention to anyone else—and in hindsight, Charles thought that was the beginning of the disintegration of their relationship.  Which was quite sad, really—James was Charles’ first real boyfriend, and as naïve as it sounded even at the beginning of their relationship, Charles thought it would last.  He should have known the relationship was bound to go sour when James reacted quite negatively to Charles’ collection of comfortable cardigans.  James’ refusal to take care of his own books were another sign, Charles realized, but real life was not a carefully structured piece of fiction.  Nothing is foreshadowed and you cannot really tell which one is Chekhov’s gun.  If there is something positive that resulted from that relationship (which lasted for a year, three months, two weeks, five days, and nine hours, not that Charles is counting), it was Charles’ bitter realization that life is nothing but a series of random things, random people, and random events.  Another naïve belief that Charles carried well into adulthood—the belief in fate and structure and reason and possibly, happiness—debunked.

He flew home with nothing but a copy of _Illuminations_ (Walter Benjamin, not Arthur Rimbaud) and his toothbrush.  Everything else he shipped in advance to New York from England, including his collection of both books and cardigans, although he was not sure whether Raven kept the boxes in her apartment or forwarded them to Westchester.  The flight was long and tiring, but as soon as he saw Raven waving enthusiastically, all plump cheeks and blond hair and toothy smile, he felt the strain on his body seeping away.

Charles is home.


	3. Chapter 3

They went straight to Raven’s flat from the airport, and Charles felt uncomfortable in the unfamiliar space as soon as his younger sister led him inside her home.  Raven visited him in London a couple of times, especially during the holidays, but he really did not make the effort to visit her in New York.  Charles thought he would stay in England forever, with James and probably a poodle, and to come home to New York is admitting to some sort of defeat.  And this is what this homecoming is all about really—about defeat—his failure to advance in his career as an educator because of a meddling man, and his failed romantic relationship.  If his life were a short story or a novel, the fact that he is running toward the arms of a woman—or women, as Dr. Frost was also instrumental in this “journey”—is a kind of irony.  Men drove him away from England, women welcomed him in New York.  Charles was not sure whether this fact would bode well in the story of his life.

“This is a nice flat,” Charles said aloud, running his finger on a dusty tabletop.  “It is quite sad that your housekeeping skills are not as nice.”

“I trust you to get started on the meticulous cleansing of my apartment tomorrow morning,” Raven laughed.  “Now which kind of pizza would you like for dinner?”

“I was expecting to be welcomed by your version of one of Mother’s “famous dishes,” but a large pepperoni pizza would be very lovely,” Charles answered as he sank into Raven’s cushy couch.  “As comfortable as your sofa is, I hope I would not be sleeping here tonight.”

“I actually can afford an apartment with a guestroom, Charles.  I took the liberty of opening your crates and taking some of your clothes and books here.  But only the cool ones.  I left all the cardigans and the smelly books in Westchester, where they rightfully belong.”

“Please do _not_ bring up the cardigans,” Charles said.  “I love the cardigans and they are comfortable.  They are sensible pieces of clothing.  And honestly, if you do not accept the cardigans as part of who I am, then—”

“I really hope you didn’t break up with John because of the cardigans.  I didn’t like him, but cardigans are a stupid reason for breaking up.”

“James!  The sod’s name is James. And we did not break up over my sensible sartorial choices.  At least that is the official press release from my side.”

“Who breaks up over cardigans? God, Charles, you can be so petty,” Raven said.  Charles wanted to argue, but when she accused him of being petty he knew he would just be hitting the nail home.  “Well, it was that jerk’s loss, anyway.  You should meet my thesis mentor.”

“Who? Lehman, Lehnstein…” Charles squinted at his sister.  There was something suspicious about the way she inserted the topic in their conversation, but again, his life is not a structured story.  This is not a hint that she is planning something devious.

“Lehnsherr! The man’s name is Erik Lehnsherr.  I think you should meet him.  You’ll get along.  And he’s Jewish.  You once told me that you liked Jews—Freud, Woody Allen, Stanley Kubrick, Jesus Christ…”

“Those are some fantastic Jews.  And Benjamin, Perloff, and Steiner, too, but it does not mean that your Eric Lehman is automatically fantastic because he is a Jew. Does he like cardigans?”

“He likes smelly old books, and it’s Lehnsherr!  Honestly Charles, you’re the only person obsessed with cardigans.  Other than Great-aunt Mildred.”

“It’s a sensible piece of clothing!”

“If you say so.  But I really think you and Erik _Lehnsherr_ will get along quite nicely.”

Charles doubted that.


	4. Chapter 4

Raven was happy that her brother Charles is back in New York.  He had talked about his plans to take up Dr. Frost’s offer to teach critical theory in the university, but he has not even dropped by to see her.  Or even drop by the literature department to see where Raven spent most of her time and maybe even meet Dr. Lehnsherr.  Once he moved in his cardigans and smelly books into Raven’s apartment, Charles spent most of his time reading and watching cooking shows.  Raven hated it when Charles _moped_ , which he did not do on a regular basis, just when he felt disillusioned about his life or what he called his “prospects.”

Raven has this scheme brewing in her head, and it involved setting her brother up with her attractive thesis mentor and see them live happily ever after, get a cat, and maybe adopt a few kids from some third-world country.  That John-Jimmy-James jerk was no good for him anyway, and Raven _is_ the only person who _should_ make fun of Charles’ cardigans.  Dr. Lehnsherr would be good for Charles.  The easiest way to forget an ex-boyfriend is to get a new one.  This was one of the best things that their late mother taught Raven, mainly because Sharon Xavier taught by example.  Once their father passed away, there were a good number of men that their mother used to forget each last one. 

Raven thought it was practical advice, and she followed it quite religiously with her own relationships.  But Charles was a hopeless romantic—he believed in the immortality of first love and other such fluffy ideas, even if he tried to deny it.  Raven could remember Charles’ first puppy love—Jakob Epstein, a classmate in that snooty all-boys boarding school he attended—and how Charles pined for him well into his early twenties.  Then there was the matter of John-Jimmy-James, who was not a Jew (a sign Charles interpreted as true love, as Jakob Epstein was a Jew and so was everyone who he had fervently read and Charles thought his ability to overlook that John-Jimmy-James was not a Jew was very mature of him), but was really ripped and good-looking.  At some point, Raven thought Charles is immersing himself in a different version of their mother’s cure to heartaches—by finding someone new to fall in love with (or have sex with, the rules are not very strict on this one).  But Raven is dismayed that Charles seems to be enjoying getting mindfucked—well, she is sure there is another more polite term for it, but for the sake of wittiness, she will not be polite—by dead Jewish men, when he could be getting in the pants of her handsome Jewish professor.

To be honest, Raven is not quite sure that Dr. Lehnsherr will like Charles.  Or that Charles will like Dr. Lehnsherr.  Because her brother’s happiness is more important than finishing the annotated bibliography on her thesis, Raven made a list of why she thinks Dr. Lehnsherr and Charles should be best friends and have sex and get married:

-       They both like books

-       They both like _old_ books

-       Charles likes Jews

-       Dr. Lehnsherr likes bright people

-       They both have the capacity to bore people to death (Charles with his fascination with dead Jewish men, Dr. Lehnsherr with his archival research fetish)

Raven bit on the end of her pen as she looked her list over.  Maybe when two boring people get together their boringness will get cancelled or whatever it was that happened to two negative numbers once you add them up.  But okay, these two men are not really boring, they just get… _engrossed_ in their boring interests.  Raven pushed her list away after staring at it for five minutes and began a new one.

 **Why I think Charles will like Dr. Lehnsherr:**

-       Dr. Lehnsherr is a Jew

-       Dr. Lehnsherr has a hot body and a very firm ass. 

-       Dr. Lehnsherr is quite handsome. More handsome than John-Jimmy-James who’s a vain little prick anyway.

-       Dr. Lehnsherr likes digging up old books, magazines, and newspapers.

-       Dr. Lehnsherr can probably read Walter Benjamin in the original German, which will probably make Charles cream his pants.

This list seems more reasonable than the first one, Raven thought, so she began another list.

 **Why I think Dr. Lehnsherr will like Charles**

-       Charles is good-looking. Of course he is good-looking, he’s my brother and ugly does not run in our genes.

-       Charles can probably understand most of the things Dr. Lehnsherr is always prattling on about.  Their future relationship can be a great meeting of the minds or whatever.

-       Charles is a slutty drunk. Or he once was.

-       Charles will probably make a good housewife.  He can’t cook to save his life even if he spends the rest of his life watching Gordon Ramsay and he can’t drive their future kids to soccer practice, but he’s very particular with the way the floors are scrubbed and the books are arranged on the shelves.

Raven set her pen down and mentally patted herself in the back.  Now, the only problem is separating Charles from his books and getting him to meet Dr. Lehnsherr.  When they finally meet, it would probably be love at first sight and disgusting as it is, they would probably suck face in the semi-privacy of Dr. Lehnsherr’s book-filled cubicle.

But somehow, Raven doubted that.


	5. Chapter 5

Erik was making his fourth cup of coffee in the literature department’s pantry (weak coffee, if he must say, but he was too lazy to run to the coffee shop the university built last year in the main library) when Drs. Frost and MacTaggert cornered him. 

“Good morning, Erik,” Dr. Frost greeted him as she reached for the box of chamomile tea. 

Erik grunted something with g’s, hoping that would be enough. 

“Good morning, Erik,” Dr. MacTaggert echoed with that chirpy voice of hers that Erik did not like hearing in the morning. 

Erik turned to her, hoping that the slight quiver of his left eyebrow would suffice as a morning greeting.

“I received the letter you placed on my desk,” Dr. Frost began as she stirred creamer into her tea until it almost reached the color of milk.  “About the sabbatical you were planning to take this year?”

“Uh, yes.  I was hoping I could take a year off and focus my time on writing something.  A book, perhaps.”

“That would be lovely,” Dr. MacTaggert and her bright, annoying, headache inducing voice. “It has been a while since your last collection of poetry.”

“Yes.  Have you read the last one?”  Because I included something about having difficulty going through the rest of the day with hearing your voice so early in the morning, _Moira_ , Erik thought.

“No, you wouldn’t believe how many things I have to read everyday, Erik.  As much as I want to sit in the meadows and enjoy your poetry, I haven’t the time.”

“Oh, right,” Dr. Frost looked thoughtful.  “Introduction to Creative Writing this term, isn’t it Moira?  The one that’s offered for non-lit majors?  I imagine you’d have a hard time.”

Erik cleared his throat and gave a fake little cough.  “So, Emma, about that sabbatical.  Will it be okay or are we going to be understaffed?”

“It will be okay,” Dr. Frost said airily.  “We’ll have two new people on the lit team next year.”

“You’ve decided to hire Ms. Xavier?”  Erik asked.  He really hoped so—having Raven as a colleague will definitely increase the number of people he was genuinely interested in talking to at work.  Dr. Frost was tolerable even if she would not stop harping on the analysis of the state of contemporary nonfiction in the country, and he had to admit that he disliked Dr. MacTaggert and her attempts to identify herself with the likes of Simone de Beauvoir, Judith Butler, and Elaine Showalter.  _Bitch, please_.

“She presented two very interesting syllabi that I believe the undergraduate classes will greatly benefit from.  Imagine, teaching a literature course on comic books and Harry Peter! Even the non-lit majors will love that!”

“I think it’s Harry Potter,” Erik said his gentlest voice.  Which was not gentle enough as Dr. Frost’s cheeks pinked a little.

“Oh, I really don’t know what the young people are reading nowadays.  It would be exciting to have someone as young as Ms. Xavier teaching in our department.  As soon as she completes her master’s, of course.”

Erik nodded, and he was aware that he probably looked like a proud parent.  “Of course.”

“She’s one of your thesis students, right?”  Dr. MacTaggert asked.  Every time she spoke to him, Erik wondered if there was a surgical procedure that will bring her voice a couple of octaves down.  If there were such a procedure in existence, Erik will donate the proceeds of his next book for it. 

“Yes.”

“Ms. Xavier’s thesis defense will be in a few days,” Dr. Frost said.  “I’m sure she’ll ace it, but it wouldn’t hurt for her mentor to be present during her big day.”

“Of course,” Erik answered and began to walk away.  “I’ll just be at my cubicle if you need me.”  He hoped they would not need him for the rest of the day. 

“What about the other professor you were thinking of hiring?” Dr. MacTaggert asked Dr. Frost. 

“Oh, you’ll like him, Moira.  He has this English accent that makes even the likes of Paul Ricœr interesting.  Actually, I think even Erik will like him.”

Erik flashed the two ladies a tight-lipped smile, but commented no further.  I sincerely doubt that, he thought smugly.


	6. Chapter 6

“Damn,” Erik muttered under his breath as he attempted to clear up his desk before he left for the small AV room on the sixth floor for Raven’s thesis defense.  This morning, Raven, sweet and thoughtful girl that she is, left him a large paper cup of coffee—with double shots of espresso, as he preferred it—on his desk with a note written on the sleeve.

 

 _10 AM AV Room 3. Don’t forget! – Raven_.

 

It was already half past eleven when Erik remembered Raven’s note, but he was busy grading the final papers of his undergrad students.  He was feeling generous for a change, and just made them write a paper on a Nobel Prize for Literature laureate of their choice instead of having them write a 15-page synthesis paper on Deconstruction and Russian Formalism (a sadistic suggestion by his favorite student, Raven).  A good number of them submitted badly written essays on Martin Luther King and Barack Obama, and even when Erik was in his rare charitable mood, he gave them all a big, fat, red F.  Even if he was known to be one of the most unforgiving professors in the department, Erik believed an F is one of the greatest murderers of student motivation.  Often, the lowest grade he would give out in class is a C, but these kids were just testing his “kindness.”

Before leaving for Raven’s thesis defense, he briefly considered dumping the papers in his metal trash bin, but the defeated looks on the faces of his students would be worth the three horrifying hours he endured going over their papers.  Yes, it would definitely be worth it.

Erik was grinning as he stepped off the elevator, his mind busy conjuring images of shocked faces when his students claim their papers from his pigeonhole by the literature department.  He had the urge to whistle in delight, but really, that was expressing his glee far too much.  He walked calmly toward AV Room 3, his shoes making a faint sound between scratching and clicking on the floor and he was almost embarrassed about the sound his shoes were making when the young man sitting in front of the AV room looked up at him.

The young man, whoever he was, had the bluest blue eyes Erik has ever seen.  Their eyes met for a brief instance but Erik looked away quickly, as if meeting the young man’s eyes was something to be ashamed of.  There was a time that the shame of meeting another man’s eyes throbs painfully in Erik’s chest but that was a long time ago, when Erik thought it was wrong to want, to _desire_ that brief non-physical contact.  It was an instinct of his, Erik thought, to look away. 

This university is a big fan of sprinkling little things such as wooden benches in front of offices, classrooms, and stairwells for the students to use.  It was a thoughtful gesture, Erik thought, the university administration really took serious consideration of the students’ needs, no matter how trivial they were.  Most of the time, Erik hated them, especially when he stepped out of the literature department office and found students who were trying to wheedle their way to higher grades. 

Erik sat down carefully on the wooden bench in front of AV Room, on the same bench where the young man with the bluest blue eyes was sitting on.  Erik on the far left, the young man on the far right.  There was a bouquet of red roses sitting between them, perfuming the air with a veil of sickly sweet aroma, not unlike the one that wafts from alcoholic drinks.

The young man looked sideways at Erik and gave a little smile.  Erik returned the smile—a twitch of his lips, really, but the gesture was meant to be a smile or at least an acknowledgment of the attractiveness of the young man’s red lips curving to acknowledge him.  Erik’s gaze rested briefly on that red bow on the young man’s face before dropping on the red roses between them.

“Sweet,” Erik murmured.  In these halls the slightest of sounds are amplified, and if he uttered that lone adjective in his normal voice it would have echoed—reverberating the multiple meanings his mind supplied for this utterance.

“They are, uh, for Raven,” the young man’s voice was a little raspy, which Erik concluded to be from disuse—if he was here for Raven, he might have been sitting here quietly for two hours.  The young man dropped his r’s and his vowels had a slight British tone to them; definitely not a local, Erik thought.  The young man’s blue eyes settled on Erik as he pointed his clean-shaven chin to the door of AV Room 3.

“Of course,” Erik nodded. 

“Charles,” the young man said in an almost whisper.

“I’m sorry?”

“The name is Charles.”

Erik’s mouth formed a silent ‘o.’  “Erik.”

“Raven has told me so much about you,” the young man—Charles—turned a little in his seat to face Erik.

“Only the good things, I hope.”

Charles laughed, a booming sound in the silence of the empty hall.  A full booming sound that would have been unpleasant if Erik’s mind did not choose to focus on the tall white teeth that Charles bared as he laughed and the contrast they made with the stark redness of his lips. 

“Only the good things,” Charles assured him.  “Only the good things.”  The repetition of the phrase seemed to amuse the young man and for a moment he was just shaking his head and smiling to himself. 

Erik took that moment to drink in the rest of the young man—from his brown-haired head, the sharp shape of his nose in profile, his red red mouth to the clothes he was wearing.  A white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone and the tails not tucked in the black jeans he was wearing.  A charcoal gray cardigan with the sleeves casually pushed up a couple of inches from the wrist.  No watch.  Black rubber-soled boots with the toes slightly scuffed and the leather creased in places.  Erik concluded that Charles was a student—probably foreign.  The red roses probably meant a romantic attachment to Raven Xavier.  Charles was still smiling to himself, but he was probably aware of Erik’s scrutiny. 

Charles crossed his arms across his chest and the right hand went to cover his still smiling mouth.  With that movement Erik noticed a hole in the armpit of Charles’ cardigan, which further strengthened Erik’s assumption that the young man is a student.  Erik was internally debating whether he should point the little hole out to get more of that pleasing booming laugh from Charles when the door to AV Room 3 opened and revealed Raven in a power suit.

“A+,” she announced, the triumph bathing her pretty face with a radiant glow.

Charles stood up and immediately gathered Raven in his arms.  After congratulating the young woman—who looked stunning in a short-skirted power suit—Charles grabbed the bouquet of red roses from the bench and thrust it to Raven.

“Thank you, Charles.  This is both sweet and strange, but because I’m happy I’m going with sweet,” Raven gushed.  “You’ve met Dr. Lehnsherr!”

Charles smiled again and looked at Erik, who was still sitting on the bench.  “Yes, and I was thinking about all the things you have told me about him just a moment ago.”

“Congratulations,” Erik stood up and offered his right hand to his favorite student. 

Instead of taking his hand and shaking it, Raven pulled him for a loose hug.  “Thank you thank you thank you!”  She released him after a moment and Erik did not feel happy even with the obvious pleasure that flooded Raven’s face. “Charles and I are going out for lunch, and I’d really like it if you could come with us.  To celebrate.”

“I, uhm, have final papers to grade.  You kids go on ahead,” Erik said lightly, hoping to keep out some of the unnamed emotions that suddenly surged in his chest.

“I would be honored if you could come with us,” Charles said, his red mouth again curved into a smile that Erik knew he should not be appreciating.

“Duty calls,” Erik said.  The sound was hollow.

When he reached his cubicle and got most of the juvenile feelings coursing through him under control, Erik thought about what a lucky girl Raven Xavier was.


	7. Chapter 7

A couple of days after Raven’s successful thesis defense, Dr. Emma Frost called Charles up and asked whether he was free for a breakfast meeting with Dr. William Stryker, who was the dean of the university’s College of Humanities, on Friday.  Charles pretended to check his schedule—just rustled through a random paperback that was sitting on an end table near him to make a sound Emma could interpret as him going through a day planner—and informed Emma that yes, he could probably make it to an 8 AM breakfast meeting.  Charles did not want Emma to think that he was just lying around his sister’s flat, re-reading books that he has read over a hundred times, and yelling at random quiz shows and Gordon Ramsay on the telly when he felt like it. 

Raven jetted off to some undisclosed location in Southeast Asia after receiving the news that she shall be receiving her master’s degree, _with high distinction_ , in a few week’s time.  Charles has been alone in his sister’s flat for three days now, and although he was feeling a bit lonely, he did not feel like going out, especially alone.

“Really, Charles, I’m a big girl.  You don’t need to know where exactly in Thailand I’m going to and _who_ I’m going with,” Raven had huffed as she packed tiny bathing suits that would probably give Charles a heart attack should Raven decide to prance around him in them.  “You’ll probably have a grand time doing all your old person hobbies in the comfort of my apartment.  I’ll be back after a week, which is enough time for you to crochet nice doilies for the tables.  Oh, and you can also arrange my graphic novel collection by author or something once you’re done with the doilies.”

“You could have at least driven me to Westchester to get that box of new, _unread_ books from England that arrived there yesterday,” Charles said, pouting. 

“Call a car service or whatever.  I can’t drive you everywhere.”

“You know I dislike riding in cars with strangers.”

“You ride cabs.”

“That _is_ different,” Charles sat up from Raven’s bed where he had unceremoniously thrown himself when Raven announced she was taking a “well-deserved” vacation.  “Cab drivers are different from car service drivers.  Sometimes the cabbies chat you up and they can be quite friendly.”

“What about learning how to drive?  I know you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but with that big brain of yours, you can probably still learn.”  Raven’s voice had that exasperated edge that only surfaced when she thought Charles was acting like the younger sibling.

“Driving is too—”

“—menial.  That’s what you’re going to say, right?  God, Charles, you’re such a snob.”

“I was going to say tiring! You know how I like taking naps in the car. ”

Charles did not need to look at Raven’s face to know that she was rolling her eyes.  “I’m sure you can manage a week without me.  It’s not like you need to go out, right?”

Charles stared at the general direction of Raven’s kitchen, which he had just cleaned this morning.  Raven had seriously underestimated Charles’ needs.  She volunteered to bring his things in her flat, but did not bother to sort through the boxes for the clothes and books that he might actually need.  She thought Charles did not need to go out.  He felt a slight irritation toward his sister, but he mentally shoved those feelings aside.  Charles was supposed to take care of Raven.

With James, Charles felt secure and cared for—James drove him to places and made sure he did not forget to eat, cooked breakfast for him, told him which clothes he should stop wearing if he still wanted to look like a respectable professor.  James probably spoiled him to make up for all the things they did not agree on.  Charles hated how jealous and petty James could be, and James hated how obtuse and single-minded Charles could be.  In the beginning, they both dismissed those irritating characteristics as charming differences that made them a better couple. In hindsight—Charles had a lot of time to think now, only not about the implications of translation as a text’s afterlife or Cartesian solipsism, but more about his personal life.  Which is a subject that Charles did not especially like, right next to geometry.

Critical theory allowed Charles not to think about his own life, which, in all honesty, was nothing interesting.  There was so much more to discover about a single essay of Jacques Derrida than twenty-nine years of Charles Xavier’ life.  Born into a wealthy family. Went to exclusive boarding school.  Father died while in boarding school. Went to Oxford for undergraduate and postgraduate degrees, both in English Literature.  Mother died while in Oxford.  Went back to Oxford for doctorate degree.  Taught in a university in London.  Met boyfriend.  Broke up with boyfriend.  Went back home to New York when refused a full-time teaching job.  Sitting in sister’s kitchen pondering how his entire life can fit neatly in a single paragraph. 

He got up from his seat, fully intending to do something about his boring life.  Outside Raven’s flat was New York City, the city that never sleeps, the city where the most mundane of lives can be exciting.  And then he remembered that Gordon Ramsay would be on in a few minutes so he just flopped down Raven’s couch and turned the telly on.  He could begin his exciting life later. 


	8. Chapter 8

Charles sat in the cubicle Dr. Emma Frost assigned him inside the literature department’s office.  He wished he brought a book with him so he would not be bored while waiting for Dr. Lehnsherr.  Dean Stryker thought it would be a good idea for him to meet with Dr. Lehnsherr, whose critical theory and modern poetics classes he would take charge of.  His cubicle was empty, but the one next to his—Dr. Lehnsherr’s, Emma said—was overflowing with books and loose bits of letter-sized paper.  Charles thought he could hear the desk groaning from the amount of books cramped into the small space.  His eyes quickly scanned the titles; most of them he owned, carefully arranged on the shelves in his room in Raven’s flat, or tucked away in the boxes at Westchester.  There were quite a few in German, and in one corner of the table an impressive collection of Edie Eisendhardt’s books.

Edie Eisenhardt is one of Charles’ favorite writers.  She is Jewish and was originally from Vienna, but moved to the United States during the early 1980’s.  She is a very prolific writer, with books on fiction, poetry, and personal essays in a curious mix of French, German, and English.  Charles thought she was one of the best writers he ever had the pleasure of reading—her writings are incredibly crafted, her insights refreshing and startling, and her verse and prose felt like they were ready to sing. 

And there was the matter of Charles’ introduction to Edie Eisenhardt’s work.  His father had been a fan himself and claimed to have met the woman while on holiday in Paris.  She signed a copy of her first book of poetry in English (titled _The System of Memories_ ) for him; dated April 7, 1978, dedicated to Brian Xavier, much thanks, Edie.  The book was a treasure to Brian Xavier, which he then passed on to his son Charles, who associated the item to the memory of his own father, the older man’s memory of this poetess he approached in a Parisian café, and a young woman’s memory of other people’s memories.  Because the book was too precious Charles had kept it close—from boarding school to university to the flat he shared with James to his room in Raven’s place.  The binding was almost cracked, the pages yellowing, but the sweet scent emanating from the paper and Edie Eisenhardt’s terse lyrics still jump at Charles whenever he would open the book. 

Over the years, Charles made sure to own most of Edie Eisenhardt’s books, many of them in English and the rest translated from French and German.  Dr. Shaw, regardless of whatever personal vendetta he has against Charles, was a good translator of her work in German, and he had been praised for his beautiful translations of her poetry. 

On Dr. Lehnsherr’s desk was an assortment of Edie Eisenhardt’s books in all the three languages she writes in.  Charles, with that mix of curiosity and boredom, reached for the slim volume on top of the stack.  _L’Empire des sens_ , the title read.  Charles knew this title to be one of Edie Eisenhardt’s untranslated works, but definitely not unpopular.  Translating this particular collection of poetry into English, one of Charles’ colleagues mentioned before, will be a crime to all the nuances and craftsmanship Edie Eisenhardt put into _L’Empire des sens_.

Charles ran his fingers absently on the surface of the pages as he browsed through the book.  His French is acceptable, but one needed to be completely immersed in the language when reading this woman’s work.  There were a couple of yellow Post-Its on the pages; notes in French, neat smallish cursive letters in blue-black ink.  Dr. Lehnsherr’s, most probably, and Charles found himself carefully running the side of his index finger over the Post-It as he did over Edie Eisenhardt’s words.

“I’m terribly sorry,” a deep voice said.  “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”

Charles looked up from the book to see who it was.  Dr. Lehnsherr, in a black-striped white button down shirt tucked into well-cut gray slacks, looking so neat and handsome and Charles felt like a kid in his usual cardigan-shirt-dark jeans-Doc Martens ensemble.  “It’s alright, really.  I’m sorry you had to come all the way here to discuss your modern poetics syllabus with me.”

Dr. Lehnsherr cocked his head slightly, eyes narrowing in recognition.  “Charles, from Raven’s thesis defense, right?”

“Right.”  Charles hated the sudden breathless quality his voice took on.  He took a deep breath, only to inhale a whiff of mint and clean muskiness, obviously from the man standing before him. 

“Raven’s not with you today?”  Dr. Lehnsherr asked, eyes dropping to the book Charles was holding.

“Uh, no,” Charles muttered.  “She’s off celebrating. Somewhere. And uhm, you have an impressive collection of Edie Eisenhardt.”

Dr. Lehnsherr smiled; a mere tugging of the sides of his thin lips but Charles wanted to think of it as a smile.  “I’m attempting to translate her work.”

Charles had to suppress a gasp that would probably be interpreted two ways: first, that he thought such an endeavor would be too awesome for words, and second, that he was not impressed.  “That’s great,” Charles said, nodding his head.  “That’s great.”  On hindsight, adding the second “that’s great” sounded a little patronizing, and he hated himself for it.

Dr. Lehnsherr nodded, his thin lips twisting into some unknown expression. “About that syllabus,” he began.  “Would you like to discuss it over coffee?”

“That’s great,” Charles said, nodding his head vigorously that his neck started to hurt. “That’s great.”


	9. Chapter 9

“I often end the term with a poetry recital,” Dr. Lehnsherr said.  “The undergrads like receiving small tokens—books, sometimes—for the best performances, but the grad students have to be taken out for coffee or dinner if their schedules permit.  You don’t have to do that in your classes, if you don’t want to.”

“No, that is a great idea, really,” Charles said.  “Your classes must have been a lot of fun.”

“That’s the least I can do.  Many of the students wouldn’t even want to go near a poetry class.  You just give them something to look forward to at the end of the term.  You can’t make them memorize Ginsberg or Whitman without rewarding them with something.” 

Charles nodded, aware that he had been doing a lot of nodding during the last hour.  Dr. Lehnsherr took him to the library coffee shop, and they sat facing each other in one of the more secluded corners reserved for faculty members.  Charles on his second cup of Earl Grey; Dr. Lehnsherr’s mug of strong coffee now lukewarm by his right arm.  Sitting this close to the other man, Charles noticed how Dr. Lehnsherr’s eyes were this indescribable shade of green and gray, and how light, almost red stubble peppered the area around his strong jaw and chin.  How his fingers were long and thin, with the fingernails rectangular and neatly trimmed.  How his striped shirt was opened at the throat just so, allowing Charles to observe the thumbprint hollow right there.  Or how there were fine lines on his forehead that appeared whenever he would squint at the tiny typefaces on the paper he and Charles were studying.  Or how the space in between his eyebrows would be divided by two lines whenever he was thinking of something. It was hard to remember everything Dr. Lehnsherr said, especially with that smell of mint and crisp clean cologne emanating from him, overpowering the potent scent of coffee that veiled the air around them.

“I am sure the students will miss you very much,” Charles said.  If Dr. Lehnsherr were his professor, he would terribly miss him during term breaks and weekends and even fifteen-minute breaks in between classes.  Not because the man looked good and smelled better (but mostly that), but because there were so much to be learned from him. Or so Charles thought.

“I’ll be in the department office the whole time,” Dr. Lehnsherr shrugged.  “Bill didn’t really approve a full sabbatical.  I’m still teaching a special translation class for the MA Lit majors and the university is now funding my formerly personal project, so I have to be around.”

“Translating Edie Eisenhardt is a personal project?” 

“Translation is a purely personal project.  Or at least the enjoyable ones are.  I’ve learned the hard way that bad literary translations stem from forcing yourself to do it.”

Actually, Charles would not know a thing about the processes and pleasures of translation, but he decided to nod.  “At least the university is funding it.  That is _something_.  For a personal project.”

“Edie Eisendhardt is turning seventy this year,” Dr. Lehnsherr began, his long-fingered right hand cupping his chin and his green-gray eyes focused on some spot on the wall behind Charles’ head.  “The project is a gift, really.  Or a commemoration.  Or maybe I just want more people to read and know her. I’ve acquired several of her unpublished poems and essays, too.  The university has this grand idea of printing the ultimate Edie Eisenhardt reader, with translations and works previously unpublished, mostly because they’re still reeling from her gift to this place two years ago.”

“And that is?”

“She donated her family’s entire library to the university.  One hundred and fifty years worth of well-preserved books from the Eisenhardt family library.  The books are lovely, plenty of marginalia and rare editions.  The university president had an entire library wing renovated to accommodate her donation.”

“A wing filled with her personal collection. In the library?”  Again, that breathless voice Charles hated hearing from himself.  It made him sound a lot younger than he actually was, and very easily impressed by random things.

“I could take you now, if you want.”

Charles thought to say no, that he could find his own way to that wing, that he could not have this man witness the way he would run his fingers over the patina on the spine of antique books, and the way he would scan through volumes of what he thought was Edie Eisenhardt’s favorites and the way he would smile when he saw little notes in pencil.  “But I would be taking so much of your time.”

“Not really.  Let’s go?”  Dr. Lensherr stood, and Charles looked up at him.  The man was impossibly long, his torso further lengthened by his striped shirt and the view from where Charles sat.

Charles followed him after a moment, feeling small and young and worried that Dr. Lehnsherr would think he is just an Edie Eisenhardt fanboy, but at the same time excited for the promise of his favorite author’s personal library. It would be a slice of Borges’ heaven, Charles thought; the experience somehow better because it will be flavored by Dr. Lehnsherr’s presence.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Erik hated Emma for not telling him that the new professor taking over his critical theory and modern poetics classes was Charles, who was possibly Raven Xavier’s British boyfriend.  He thought that would be a nice arrangement, a couple working together in the department, which was something they did not have for the last ten years Erik was teaching there.  It would be cute, Erik thought, and extremely depressing for him. He hated himself for thinking that—for somehow expecting that things will go his way and Charles was going to be his and not Raven’s. 

Erik hated himself for inviting Charles out for coffee when a simple conversation in the office could have sufficed. Hello, this is the syllabus I use, please do not make the students love you so much because I have to return teaching that same subject next year—terse yet relentless, that could have done the job.  But the temptation to spend more time with Charles—Raven conveniently somewhere far, far away—was too great.

When Charles ordered tea it was not a surprise.  The other man looked like a tea drinker, Erik thought, and he liked going with what first popped into his head.  And then they began talking about Edie Eisenhardt and Charles just lit up. Erik often disliked talking about her with other people, especially when he was younger.  He loved her so much, but there was something about the way people said her name that made him feel insecure.  Made him feel like they were talking to him because of her and not because he was particularly interesting.

But it was different with Charles—when the five syllables of her name poured from his obscenely red mouth he suddenly felt proud.  Erik felt he needed to impress Charles by talking about her in the most objective way possible.  He felt he needed to mention the very generous gift she gave this place so Charles will be impressed with her generosity, and by extension, with Erik as well.  And there was also this nagging desire to be with the younger man longer.

When they reached the Adler Eisenhardt Wing—Edie’s father and the man that Erik had to learn perfect German for when he was younger—Charles lit up brighter, if that was even possible.  His blue eyes were almost luminous and Erik was sure that his face could be a faint source of life in a sealed cellar.  The younger man practically ran to the shelves, where he ran his pale fingers on the spines of the books that he passed by, as though he could read the inscriptions with mere touch. Erik did not try to catch up with Charles, preferring to slowly walk behind the other man, watching him intently.

Charles turned to him, directing the full force of the blue lasers he had for eyes at Erik.  “All of these, they are Edie’s?” His voice was just slightly above a whisper.

Erik nodded. “And the Eisenhardt family,” he replied in what he hoped was a low, casual tone.  It was true, none of these books ever made it to the houses that Erik lived in as a child with Edie.  The really important and valuable ones she kept close up to this day, but the volumes housed in this area of the university’s library were older ones that belonged to her father, her father’s father, her father’s grandfather; some she had bought for Erik (that he has since outgrown), some from her various obsessions and research topics.  Ten thousand different titles, Erik thought with pride as he watched Charles flit around and between the shelves.

The university library consulted Erik on how to organize the bequeathed collection, and while Edie is very meticulous about other parts of her life, Erik knew—from almost two decades of living with her—that she never really cared about the Dewey Decimal System when organizing her books.  Just general genres and topics, Erik had said.  Put poetry books with other poetry books, fiction with its kind, drama in another.  History and biography can be placed on shelves opposite each other, that kind of general organizing system. 

And now Charles had flitted to the poetry section, sliding his fingers over hundreds of thin spines like a jazz pianist would.  Something seems to have caught Charles’ eye, Erik saw, and he stopped in front of a shelf to pull out a thin cream volume.

“I have this same exact one,” Charles breathed, barely audible over the distance between him and Erik. 

Erik walked closer as Charles absently flipped through the book.  “ _Petits Poème en prose?_ ” Erik asked.

“Well, it is part of my father’s collection. He is a big fan of Baudelaire, and maybe that was why he really liked Edie Eisenhardt,” Charles explained.  His red mouth curved into an attractive bow that Erik decided he should not look at—or at least, look at blatantly.

“That’s one of Edie Eisenhardt’s favorite books.  I think she has three copies of that volume.”

“And this is the one with marginalia,” Charles said, visibly pleased with the little penciled-in notes he found in the different pages.

Erik had the same copy of the book, too, painstakingly annotated by Edie Eisenhardt.  _Check out metaphors._   _Listen to the sound_.  _Sound and sense, said Perrine._   _Explore the prose form in your poetry_.  _Nice square chunks of text are nice to look at sometimes_.  Erik knew that the notes on the copy Charles held were a lot different—more personal and not didactic, something along the lines of praising Baudelaire and wondering why this certain word was used.  Wondering, through tiny handwritten notes, why words were chosen in this certain order.

He was probably too deep in his thoughts that he did not notice Charles return the Baudelaire to its place to crouch down and sift through the titles at the lower shelves. 

“Is this one of yours?” Charles pulled a thin volume in slate-gray, with Erik’s name in embossed sans serif on the spine and cover.  _Fictions_ , Erik knew the title was.  

“I suppose,” Erik answered. 

Charles stood up and Erik was suddenly aware of how short Charles was—no more than five-feet-seven, he guessed.  “What do you mean “you suppose?”  You are Erik Lehnsherr, right?” Charles was smiling and _very_ distracting.

Erik just nodded.

Charles opened the book.  “This is a rather ironic title for a poetry collection, but I like it.  Oh, and look, more marginalia.  What is this one, “great use of lineation.”  Edie Eisenhardt must have read your work thoroughly!”

Erik scratched at an imaginary itch at the back of his neck.  “She doesn’t read anything without a pencil to make marginal notes.”

Charles looked up from the book and just beamed at him. “So you do know her personally!”

“You can say that. Uh, I can introduce you to her one of these days.”

“You really would? I mean, you are not saying that out of politeness?”

“I really would.”

Charles was grinning like Erik promised him the world. “Thank you, Erik. Can I call you Erik?”

“Of course,” Erik replied a little bit too fast. Call me whatever you want, his mind supplied.

Charles happily went back to Erik’s book, his eyes scanning lines of poetry.  “I would love to read more of your wonderful poetry, but I am afraid I cannot borrow anything from the library just yet.”

“Well, actually, even if you have had your faculty ID processed you can’t borrow anything from this collection.  Everything’s for room use only.”

Erik told himself that he is not affected by the way Charles’ face fell at that.  Told himself that Charles was probably just being polite about his poetry as he wrote down a dedication on the first page of a copy of _Fictions_ that he would leave in Charles’ desk the next day, together with a monograph that Edie Eisenhardt wrote about Baudelaire’s prose poetry more than thirty years ago.  He turned the words over and over in his mind, trying to come up with the most neutral dedication, a dedication that would not express anything but platonic interest.

 _To Charles_ ,

 _Hoping that you would find reading my work enjoyable._

 _Erik Lehnsherr_


End file.
